


trypanophobia

by spiderboyneedsahug



Series: Baby Avenger [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Drugs, Hurt Peter Parker, Ice Cream, Illnesses, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Whump, dad! tony, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: Peter's metabolism: both a blessing and a curse. It means he gets to be strong and it means he doesn't get affected by drugs.Or so he thought.





	trypanophobia

**Author's Note:**

> this brain drain is getting to me akjfsfh my head hurts
> 
> inspired by this prompt from my Tumblr:  
> Hello!! I love your writing! Can i ask for whump fanfiction about peter where he has been injected with drugs that make him addicted, and he hides it until tony finds out and need to help him go off the drugs? Thanks!

He doesn’t mean for it to happen. One second, he’s swinging through an abandoned alley where he is  _ sure _ he heard noises coming from, and the next he’s on the floor. Someone is standing above him, a big  _ something _ in hand, and he can hear more footsteps approaching. He thinks. It’s all fuzzy and distorted at the minute. That hit had probably given him a concussion, he knows, but everything else seems foggy and out of reach. Moving is a task too monumental for him to even think of completing. He groans quietly, but the alley makes it sound loud anyways. Seriously, he was meant to be back at the apartment an hour ago, and now this?

 

His Spidey-sense gives him a warning, the stabbing sensation telling him that whoever is above him wants him  _ dead _ . Peter shakes his head and flips back up into a fighting stance. His landing is upright, but nowhere near as graceful as a normal one would be for him.  _ Sloppy _ . The people are blocking the entrance to the alley, and right now he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fight them off without seriously hurting one of them, so all he does when they take a step closer to him is press himself further against the wall. Peter groans quietly and tries to aim a web shooter at the guy in the middle. His vision is swimming though, and one guy is becoming three people moving hazily around his line of sight. 

 

His senses aren’t working either. With his eyesight screwed and his hearing going nuts, he can only really rely on his ability to pick up vibrations. And there’s three of them. When they finally decide to rush him, Peter manages to execute a relatively graceful flip over one and webs him to a wall. His Spidey-sense alerts him to move to the side to dodge the incoming punch aimed at his head, and he only just manages. He stumbles, unbalanced, and only just dodges the knife to his gut. He moans in pain and webs the person’s hand to the wall. Moving was a terrible idea, because now the entire alley is lilting around and he keeps stumbling to the sides. He checks once that they’re secure before trying to swing back out of the hellscape.

 

Trying. Something gets him in the arm as he’s swinging so he lets go of the web. There’s another person and they’re stood at the mouth of the alley, in plain sight, and Peter is still airborne, so he shoots a web at the guy’s foot while he’s falling, and then another which knocks him to the ground. He wouldn’t normally be so rough with them, but he’s pretty sure he’s got a bad concussion and there’s something wet at the back of his neck, so he just wants to hightail it out of there.

 

Turns out, you shouldn’t be slinging webs with a severe concussion. One tall building morphs into four, and to avoid them he lets go of his webs and goes crashing into a roof. He slams to a halt on the rooftop with a gasping wince, clutching at his injured arm. His head is completely screwed now, like it’s filled with water and cotton wool. Peter gasps again, the noise reflexive and hurt, sucking in each breath greedily. He doesn’t know why every sensation across his body is numb while his insides feel like they’re melting. Thinking becomes impossible the more time he spends on the rooftop. He hardly has the energy to move more than a slight twitch. His conscious brain is screaming at him to have Karen call Mr. Stark, to have someone save him from  _ whatever _ this is, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a gurgle and a wheezing noise. Any sounds are muffled right now, coming to a concussed brain through miles of water. He can feel himself gasping still, chest heaving, but he can’t stop himself. It’s like he’s not even in his body anymore.

 

It takes half an hour for him to get his body to listen enough to just roll over. Peter’s limbs are heavy and leaden, slamming into the ground gracelessly. He whines airily, and tilts his head to see the skyline. The ledge on the rooftop is too high for him to see over like this, so Peter just rolls back onto his back with a groan and lies there.

 

When he tilts his head to the side for the second time, he catches sight of the half-depressed syringe sticking out of his arm, about half a vial of golden-amber fluid still there. Normally, he would have scrambled backwards and freaked out, but with  _ whatever the hell _ that is in his system, he can’t help but be curious about it. The needle hadn’t been put in nicely like the nurses who did his vaccinations as a kid, but stabbed in like a makeshift weapon. Funny thing is, though, it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s like he’s floating above his body, watching every aborted twitch he makes from an outsider’s view point. Peter’s stomach roils from not having eaten.

 

He giggles a little. He forgot to  _ eat _ . How silly is that? His own body has to remind him to do such simple things. What good is his brain if he can’t even remember that? His fingers scratch lazily at the gravel below, and he pulls a fist-full of it up, watching it fall back down to the ground. Gravity is so weird. Peter blinks, and looks up at the cloudy sky. It’s gotten pretty dark. By now, May’s probably losing it. But he can’t show up at the door like this, concussed to high hell and drugged up.

 

He lets out a small cry as a particularly bad throb of pain flares up in his chest. It’s all coming back to him now, as the drug is burned out of his system and he’s pulled back into his body. 

“Karen?” He wheezes, gritting his teeth as another wave of pain submerges him.

_ ‘Peter, there is an unknown drug in your system and the contaminant is still present in your body. Calling Mr. Stark.’  _ She sounds as concerned as an AI can be, and Peter realises belatedly that he can’t deter her from it.

“Karen, don’t! Please!”

The line dials and picks up anyways, and Tony’s voice comes through his mask. “Kid? Peter, what’s happening?”

“Mr. Stark- I’m sorry, I don’t know what Karen is doing-” He yelps again as his body tries to burn through the drug, and his stomach cramps painfully.

“Doing something you won’t:  _ getting help when you’re hurt _ . Your vitals are all off, what’s happening?”

_ ‘Peter has been drugged with an unknown substance. The syringe is still in his arm.’  _ Peter gapes. Tattletale. 

“Karen!”

“I’m on my way, kid. Do  _ not  _ touch the syringe.”

“I- I-” The line clicks down before he can manage anything coherent. His stomach is starting to give the warning signs of nausea now, so Peter forces himself upright, unfocused eyes drifting from thing to thing.

 

The first gag takes him by surprise. The thing in his throat still wants to come up, and the syringe is still in his arm, but he tugs his mask over his mouth despite the stabbing pain that rises from the action. Bile rises into his throat, and that’s the tipping point. Peter retches and heaves, failing to ignore the immediate waft of vomit-smell that rises up and threatens to draw more out. His eyes are watering, and he doesn’t feel any better. When he’s done he falls to the side of the vomit puddle, trembling and freezing. He curls up a little tighter for warmth, even after Karen activates the suit’s heaters.

 

The syringe is still in his arm. Part of wants to just depress it, to dump that load of drugs into his system and get rid of the pain. Hell, his fingers are hovering above the plunger when he starts to hear the telltale whine of repulsors and the heavy clang of metal on the roof.

“Kid! Leave the syringe alone, don’t touch it!” The urgency in the muffled voice stops him from depressing the syringe, if only by a little bit. His arms are trembling so much, like he hasn’t eaten in days and doesn’t have the energy to lift them anymore.

“Mr. Stark- I can’t- It hurts. It’ll stop. It’ll make it stop.”

“No, it won’t. It’ll make you feel better for a few minutes, then you’ll crash even harder. Kid, these have to be hard drugs to be getting to you. Do  _ not _ empty that syringe. You’ll overdose.” The metal hands pull his arms away from the syringe, back towards the ground, and don’t let up. Peter struggles against them slightly, but all his strength is gone and he never  _ could _ fight Mr. Stark. So he screws his eyes shut and whimpers in pain, tears tracking down his cheeks. It hurts, like acid has replaced the blood in his body. Everything hurts. 

“Shit, kid. Karen, vitals?”

_ ‘Heart rate is spiking, and vital activity is increasing rapidly. Transmitting vitals to Doctor…?’ _

“Banner. Send them to Banner.” 

Peter tries to push himself away when metal arms scoop underneath his ribs, but his arms aren’t working anymore. The pain ratchets up another level.

 

He doesn’t even bother  _ trying _ to quieten how loud he’s crying. It hurts, and he’s allowed to be in pain. It’s like he’s being ripped apart from the inside; like someone has stabbed him and keeps  _ twisting _ the knife around, gutting him like some kind of animal.

“Shh, kid. Hey, I know it sucks. Listen to my voice. Just focus on my voice, oka-” Peter tries, he really does, but all he can hear are his gasping breaths and the high-pitched ringing that’s closing in on him.

“ _ Hgnnn- _ Mr. St- tark-” Peter clutches at a metal-clad wrist. Everything’s gone funny; disconnected from reality. The little electric shocks that hit his brain as his fingertips touch down on the arm  _ hurt _ . He squeezes.

“Help.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying! Kid, just focus on my voice, okay? Focus-”

 

By some demented miracle, he doesn’t pass out on the journey. He’s too spent to try doing much though, he just keeps his eyes open. Mr. Stark is rambling, some words Peter just can’t understand through his pain-addled brain, probably trying to keep him awake. He’s not going to sleep. His body has made that plenty clear. He’s exhausted, but can’t sleep. What kind of body…? A particularly cold breeze forces a shiver out of him. It drains what little energy he has left in him.

“You with me kid?” He can’t reply, but he does manage the slightest increase of pressure on Mr. Stark’s wrist. He hopes that’ll be enough.

“Yeah, I guess that’s as good a response as any. Don’t worry, Pete. Bruce’ll fix you.”  _ Thunk _ . Peter’s relatively sure Mr. Stark just landed somewhere. He doesn’t open his eyes to check, even as a rhythmic pattern of  _ thumps _ sets up. They echo around the halls.

“Hey, eyes up, kid. C’mon. Me and Brucie’ll drag you through this.” Peter does manage a slight shift to look upwards.

“Yeah, that’s right. You’ll be fine! I’m gonna give you lots of ice cream and rest time after this, ‘kay?”

“M’kay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a prompt here or on my Tumblr (spiderboyneedsahug)! <3


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